The Shadow Bringer hated Mithras.
Hated the words he chose, hated the way he carried himself. Hated the arrogance in his diseased eyes. Hated that his armor shone obscenely bright, hated every lie he told.
Mithras wore a skin that was not intended for him.
His thoughts spiraled as he listened to him speak, wandering into dark, perilous places. Places where he wasn’t weak or in a state between life and death. He ignored the urge to slam his palms into the sockets of his eyes. His limbs were still so numb, so creaking, so hollow . He could scarcely feel them. It took everything within him to land each footstep, to align each part of his body so that it made the movement it was intended for.
He knew Esmer was out there, hidden within Mithras’s followers. He wanted to avoid thoughts of her, wanted to forget his intent for her—he was so close —but his attention drifted to her regardless. She would soon despise him like he despised Mithras. But with her, he could be free.
Free .
Free to pursue answers, seek vengeance, and reconcile with his past.
But at what cost?
The Bringer untangled himself from thoughts of her, looking past the half-opened door to his tomb. It was objectively dark and dismal outside, but to him it looked wonderful. It was real and true , and it surprisingly made him want to live. It didn’t matter what they desired. They were enemies, all of them. They were trivial, unworthy. Useless, save for one.
Esmer.
A life for a life—a life to reclaim his strength. A life to restore his memories, his purpose. And once he was finished, he’d come back for her. If he succeeded, her future and her purpose would be restored, too.
He’d make sure of it.
He nearly smiled, then, as what little power he had left smoldered at his fingertips, disintegrating into the air as if it were nothing at all.
It had taken him hours to open the stone slab, but now he was free.
Free.
An hour ago, the Light Legion was ablaze in panic. Now they were silent among the ashes, hearts beating a slow, steady drumroll. The rhythm became the Shadow Bringer’s warsong, leading him back into his tomb.
Just as it would lead Esmer.
The Tomb of the Devourer greeted him with an ancient breath as he stepped back inside, draping his limbs in dust and shadow. It was an abyssal, gaping structure, all carved into the body of a hill, and he soon found himself at the central staircase that descended deep into the earth.
“Almost,” he murmured, breathing deep the cold, earthen air. He traced the walls, observing the obsidian that gleamed there. The tomb was hewn from shadow—from dark, unnamed things—and it battled the moonlight that did little to illuminate it. “But first, I—” He trailed off, forgetting.
Something held his memory, cradled it, shook it. But he could not remember.
He descended the stairs with greater strength than he had felt in days, stomach full from scraps he found around a half-dead fire, but he still felt weak and a bit lost. Perhaps he could just forget Mithras. He could forget Esmer, too. The girl who haunted him and clawed through his dreams.
But he reached the bottom of the stairs first.
And he saw the bones again.
Two sets of bones, two skeletons, slumped against the lower walls of his tomb. The Shadow Bringer stopped, watching as moonlight and shadow warred over them. He didn’t know why the skeletons were there. Or why they sat so dignified, so near to the inner chamber that had held him. He stared at the forgotten bones and told himself that they were nothing. That they were the bones of Mithras’s followers, bodies that had no place in his tomb of shadow.
But suddenly a memory rose, sharp and clear.
“Leave—I’m begging you. Your lives are not worth this.” Erebus’s voice faltered, hoarse from screaming. He had not slept for days. “Leave while you’re still whole—while you still have the choice. Your purpose has never been to die for my sake.”
At Sorren and Ceveon’s silence, Erebus finally cracked.
“Leave!” he howled. “I command you—leave!”
His two loyal followers met his wild eyes, their expressions dark with sorrow and words left unspoken. They looked to their leader, their broken lord of shadows, and they bowed, long and deep. Their capes fluttered against the floor, the only sound in that cold and terrible place.
“We will not forsake you, Erebus,” Ceveon vowed, crossing his forearm over his chest. “No matter what they say, we will never forsake you.”
They were coming. They had such little time.
Sorren shifted, uneasy, sensing the change. “May it be a fortnight or a year—they will realize the truth soon enough.” Sorren stopped, motioning toward the tomb’s innermost door. Towering and ominous, it rested at the bottom of the stair they had carved deep into the ground. “We must seal you before they find this place. And they’re nearly here, aren’t they?” Sorren saw what he needed in Erebus’s expression. He swallowed, biting back the bile rising sour and unwanted in the back of his throat. “Then it is time.”
Erebus searched the faces of his comrades, his friends, and he knew that he would not let them die for him.
Not like this.
Never like this.
Until the Weavers knew the truth, they would never allow Sorren and Ceveon to leave this place alive. So he cleaved his last shred of power from the depths of his soul, bidding it upwards and outwards. He commanded the shadows to form a wall of impenetrable dark, obscuring and sealing the outer tomb. Only those who knew the darkness—who felt the dark as it clung to them—would be able to enter this place.
Ceveon and Sorren stared in wonder as he worked, watching the shadows as they embedded themselves into every stone, every crevice.
“The tomb is now hidden,” Erebus said, motioning toward the barrier of undulating shadow. If one of them retreated—if Ceveon or Sorren left the tomb—the barrier would shatter, leaving Erebus vulnerable. But they need not know this. They needed to escape when it was time. They needed to leave him and be free. “I’ve embedded my power into the stone. You will be safe to leave when you are ready.”
Ceveon rested a hand on Erebus’s shoulder. He wanted his lord to know that he was understood and that he would be protected. Moreover, that they, even if it were only they, would come back to him. Always, they would come back to him. Sorren joined him, laying a hand on Erebus’s other shoulder.
Together, they made their oaths.
“We have followed you since Evernight,” Ceveon said, fighting against the hopelessness that was beginning to taint his words. “And we will continue to follow you, forevermore.”
Sorren nodded grimly. “The seal will keep you. The castle that you will guard—remember its purpose. Remember your mission, even when it seems darkest.”
“And may we rid the world of its darkness, once and for all,” Ceveon vowed. “We will return to you.”
“Thank you, my friends,” Erebus whispered, withdrawing into the tomb.
Ceveon and Sorren began the process of sealing him, but he could not watch. He could not watch as tears fell from Ceveon’s battle-hardened face, leaving streaks in the dirt that marked his skin. He could not watch as Sorren made a quick, hasty cut over his own forearm, pressing his lifeblood into the last lines of the seal. And when they finally drew the door close, the last Erebus saw of the living world were his own shadows, staring back at him from the walls.
He sank to the floor, the darkness and the cold consuming him in full.
He knew he would not see the light again for some time.
And he was not ready.
Wetness clung to the Shadow Bringer’s face, trickling from his eyes. He laid a hand there, in the place where his skin was wet, letting it seep into his fingertips.
Esmer was at the top of the stairs, uncertain and watching him. He had left her unaltered by his power; she was meant to find him, meant to wander here, linger here, follow him down—all so that she could be sealed as he had been for the past five-hundred years. If she could replace him in the Realm, guarding the castle, then he could leave without guilt. It wouldn’t be for long, he told himself. He’d come back for her—and she could handle her own. He had witnessed it himself. It had to be done.
It had to be done.
But his eyes wandered to the two lonely, desolate skeletons, two hollowed-out husks of two people who used to…who were…
“Ceveon,” he mouthed, feeling out the name on his tongue. It had been so long, and his memories had withered. Still, he knew. “Sorren.” He knelt beside them, laid a hand on their bones. How brittle they felt. How empty and wrong.
They had called him Erebus.
Not the Shadow Bringer.
Erebus .
